Dichotomy
by snitchnipped
Summary: "As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being."  —Carl G. Jung.  Written for the 2011 Narnia Fic Exchange.
1. DICHOTOMY: WANING

Originally submitted for the 2011 Narnia Fic Exchange. Many thanks to turkeyish for the prompt and lady_songsmith for the beta!

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><p>"As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being." — Carl G. Jung<p>

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><p><strong>DICHOTOMY: WANING<br>Base Camp, Glasswater, Narnia. Thirdweek March, 1008.**

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><p>Edmund frowned.<p>

He knew without opening his eyes that Turvalin was currently standing at the door of his tent, patiently waiting for acknowledgment. The last thing he wanted to do was move—he found himself at that perfect juxtaposition of warmth under the blankets and furs while the morning cold hit his nose. He breathed in the crisp air and snuggled deeper into his cot. Still, the squire would not go away—Edmund could hear him impatiently shifting from hoof to hoof.

"Your Majesty, your brother the High King has requested you meet him for breakfast. We will start to pack once you've gone to meet him."

"Mmm." It was both a protest and an exclamation of comfort.

He heard Turvalin drop something on the camp desk that clamored and slowly came to a rest. His armor, presumably, carefully cleaned overnight. "I shall tell his Majesty that you will meet him presently?" There was a flap of heavy fabric being lifted and falling, and Edmund was once again alone. The satyr was obviously not interested in waiting for an answer.

It was the one morning they would spare themselves from their drills. It was apparent that he did indeed sleep in later than usual, though it was still much too early for his tastes. However, they did need to leave fairly early to keep to the schedule Peter had sent along with the Hawk.

Surely, though, his brother would allow him an extra hour of recuperation, of sleep. For once, his dreams were surprisingly sweet, with flashes of grand feasts, fast horses, and pretty Archenlander girls with their shiny tresses pulled back in simple braids. Those types of blissful dreams were rare, and he attempted to return to them, sinking deeper into the furs. The sound of the waves hitting the shore not two dozen yards outside his tent was slowly succeeding in lulling him back...he urged his horse faster, the trickle of laughter from behind...

A sudden _thunk!_ of his armor settling ruined that opportunity, and his body jerked awake with a start. _Damn._Edmund slowly opened his sleep-crusted eyes, recoiling in dismay at the glowing brightness of his canvas tent. The thick taste of rum still hung on his lips, and most likely, breath. Were Lucy to be here and smell it on him at breakfast, she would most likely have turned her nose up in distaste.

_As if she were one to talk_, Edmund thought. _She was the one that doubled the Galman rum order to begin with._

Edmund inhaled deeply, exhaling in a yawn. It seemed that a few of the Cats of his personal squad had been successful in their predawn hunt, and the aroma of potato and venison stew was penetrating his tent. His stomach emitted an impatient grumble in response. The combination of his dream and his hangover made him exceptionally hungry that morning.

Squinting against the dull light, Edmund sat up, immediately regretting the speed of doing so as his head gave a few pounds in protest. Turvalin had laid out his clothing on the stool next to him, as expected, and after quickly donning them against the cold, he reached under his cot, fishing for the flopped over pair of new boots.

Once he was all buckled in, Edmund sat back on his cot, propping himself up on his elbows. It was a rare morning, indeed. Despite having a slightly nauseous—_hungry_—stomach and a dull headache, he expected much, much worse. There should have been the night sweats. There should have been the familiar feelings of falling, falling, falling, or the heavy weight on his chest, as if a goblin was sitting on him, squeezing the air out of his lungs...

The dark thoughts started fingering their way into his consciousness, and Edmund forced himself to snap his attention back to the present. The previous night was a gift, and it was stupid to have let his mind wander so.

Hearing voices outside his tent, Edmund was reminded that his brother was most likely waiting for him, and he eventually stood up. A feeling of soreness from several days of flight still clung to his legs, and he was hesitant to fully stretch. He decided against it. He trudged over the wash basin and reached in to splash his face, but stopped. The cold water would only wake him up further, as stretching would have, something he was equally not interested in doing. He shook his hands dry and after strapping on one of his knife holsters, he emerged from his tent to face the day.

And instantly regretted it. Normally, Edmund would have found the cool dampness of the seashore invigorating, especially after a good hour of morning drills. This grey overcast morning, however, with the ocean breeze and the sounds of morning camp made him want nothing more than to return to his tent, crawl back into his cot and pull the furs up to his chin against the chill.

"Good morning, your Majesty," a nearby Crane purred at him, while two of his fellow compatriots followed suit with louder, whooping calls, wishing him morning greetings and blessings towards his sister. Susan was always a favorite amongst the Cranes, having been honored to learn their dance two summers prior.

Edmund acknowledged the greetings with a halfhearted salute and started on his way. The longer he could delay speaking in the morning, the better it was for everyone. The gulls around him scuttled this way and that, clearing a path as he continued down the beach, following the edge of camp towards the enticing smells, and, rather unfairly, his brother's tent right by them.

This morning, Glasswater was not looking up to its name—the early spring storm a few miles off shore the previous evening had churned the normally clear water into a swirling grey mass with dwarf-high waves breaking closer to shore than normal. What storm debris was still left on shore was slowly being collected by beautiful naiads. Edmund had learned years before that this was not done out of necessity, but as a courtesy to the soldiers. The stench of decaying seaweed and tiny crab carcasses was not the most pleasant thing to some of the encampment, even though several of the beasts mentioned that they didn't mind it as much. The Crows in particular seemed to be reveling in the task, swooping down through the camp smoke, snatching meaty morsels, and returning up to their perches on the remaining tent poles.

Edmund gazed admiringly upon one of the enchanting creatures who had just picked up a mass of black, tangled weeds. After flashing him a beatific, distant smile and a wave in return, the dark-headed naiad tossed the seaweed clump back into the ocean, a trail of water streaming behind it. Edmund heard laughter farther out and saw that a pale head had emerged, reaching a sinewy hand up to catch it, followed by a quick dive—and a flicker of a tail a split second later. The mermaids and the naiads were apparently making a game of their task. Edmund had a slight urge to join in, but exhaustion and hunger won out. He instead turned his attention back to where the smoke from the fire was originating, and lazily made his way away from the beach.

Edmund and Peter's respective tents were on opposite sides of the encampment. Peter found it a good idea to have a monarch flanking each side of the army, with a captain in the front and in the rear, for tactical reasons. Deep down, Edmund believed it was because when they first went on campaigns together, Peter would be annoyed by the late night candlelight and shuffling of papers as Edmund would be by Peter's cheerful, overtly loud morning conversations. They never could even comfortably share a room, let alone a small Narnian tent. _Wait, when did we ever share a room again?_

Edmund heard before he saw his brother. Really, the loudness of his brother in the morning could be borderline absurd at times. It was no exception this morning as the laughter bounced around the enclosure of his section of camp. Edmund saw Peter talking animatedly with his helmet in hand and his sword in the other, eventually handing the former over to the faun on the receiving end of his morning instructions. The young squire, already balancing the remainder of his armor, perched it on top of his pile, and with a respectful if not precarious bow, quickly strode off. By the condition of the metal pieces, Edmund assumed the suit was off to be cleaned. It was traditional post-battle ritual, one that Edmund had remembered to see to upon his arrival. He hadn't trusted himself to remember to have it done that morning.

"Good morning, Ed!" Peter greeted as he approached, his volume causing Edmund to flinch and halt just short of where he was planning on stopping. He swore he saw a Crow take flight from atop Peter's tent in surprise, as well. "Sleep well?"

A loaded question. Peter was aware that Edmund was occasionally prone to unpleasant nights in which he would wake up physically shaking. Those nights with the accompanying disturbing dreams of the time before, of _her_, often came after battle. And especially after a night of drinking away the thoughts of the day's battle.

Peter himself was never witness to this, but he knew. He _always_ knew. He suspected that Peter could hear Edmund's rare shout that would wake even himself up from across the corridor in the middle of the night. _Thank Aslan those instances are few and far between_. Or maybe he had witnessed the dryad maids swiftly exiting his rooms the following mornings, aimed directly towards the laundry, sweat-soaked sheets in hand.

More than likely, though, it was Lucy telling Peter directly her own concerns over him—he really need to stop going to her with private problems. He loved her dearly and knew she was only trying to help, but the girl was simply incapable of keeping things to herself.

Edmund was relieved that none of these were the case this morning, and he gave his brother a small smile and a nod of reassurance. Peter's face brightened, and after buckling Rhindon around his waist, he turned and led the way towards breakfast.

Edmund quietly fell into step behind his brother, stifling a yawn.

While they were set to make the trek home at midmorning, the majority of their army would stay behind for several more days until the remaining parties had checked in. The section of camp that Peter's tent was located was set to stay, though there was still a hustle and bustle of preparation as those remaining helped prepare for their small party's departure. The kitchen tent, on the other hand, was always a hub of activity, and once again, Edmund inhaled the enticing scents coming from within.

"Look here, sire!" came a call just feet from where breakfast was waiting. "We stumbled across a wild grove yesterday on our way in. We're thinking of naming them Valiants, for they are the color of her Majesty's rosy cheeks!"

Peter stopped in his tracks, causing Edmund to nearly run into him. "Toss me an apple, sir."

He recognized that tone. _Honestly, he can be quite insufferable_, he thought as he wisely backed up. Edmund saw the soldier—Peridan, one of the colonist recruits, Edmund recalled—throw an apple up and towards his brother and simultaneously heard the sound of metal scraping against metal. In a flash, Peter had unsheathed Rhindon and had deftly sliced the apple midair. The equally sized halves landed at Peter's feet, and his brother gave one a playful nudge with his toe.

There was a lazy smatter of applause and a whistle or two from those around them while Peter wiped the juice of his blade on his pants, smiling smugly before glancing teasingly up at Edmund. A challenge.

His eyes never leaving his brother's, Edmund garbled his first words of the morning. "Throw me one as well, Peridan."

Peridan's smile grew as he dug around in his basket for one. He purposefully tossed a particularly colorful apple high up and over.

Edmund watched the arc of the fruit in anticipation, his right hand fingering the pommel of the short blade strapped to his thigh—

—and caught the apple with his left, quickly taking a large bite of it.

Edmund smiled as he chewed. He pretended to ignore the laugher and slightly less lazy applause than what Peter received, glorying in the perturbed look on his brother's face. "Truly excellent, Peridan," he said around a mouthful of fruit. "Shouldn't have dropped yours, Peter."

"Oh, shut it, you," Peter scoffed and he roughly shoved his sword back into his scabbard, turning towards the kitchen tent.

The apple was delicious, but it was making his stomach rumble further, and he eagerly stepped once again in Peter's shadow.

The line at the boiling pot in the tent was only three fauns, a man and a dwarf deep, but the soldiers stepped respectfully to the side to allow their lieges towards the front. Peter nodded to them, and made his way to the stack of wooden bowls, reaching for two of them. "I was thinking we could have breakfast at The Claws this morning. What say you?" he asked, handing Edmund a bowl.

He was never comfortable going ahead of others, but Edmund gratefully took the bowl and smiled sheepishly, bowing to the waiting soldiers. They bowed back. He felt even less comfortable.

Though it was rare that Peter and Edmund could sit and just talk, the time was much treasured, especially post battle. When they were constantly by each other's side, things were just understood and not discussed. The time to flesh things out came when they needed to. But having spent the last several days apart—_Was it five or six? They all blend together_—Peter apparently believed they needed to set time aside for both debriefing and for the idle chat only brothers can share. Edmund much preferred these instances to happen in the evenings over drink, but he didn't seem to have the choice this time around.

Edmund held the remaining apple in his teeth as he held out his bowl with both hands to be filled by the Bear doling out the stew. Confident he wouldn't spill, he took out the fruit and said, "It has been awhile since we've been up there, hasn't it?"

"It was last spring, I think." Peter nodded his thanks to the Bear and the other cooks in the tent and led the way back outside.

Edmund smiled again apologetically at those waiting who had quickly reformed their queue. "As long as you think we can be back in time to leave according to your schedule, I'm up for it."

Peter glanced at him over his shoulder. "According to _my _schedule, we have a full hour allotted just for this."

"Lead the way then."

Edmund waited until they left the encampment and headed through the clump of forest towards the giant hill before he tossed away the core. _Pretty good. Lucy will be honored._

When they reached the forest's edge at the base of a large hill, Edmund tilted his head to look up at their destination. The view from that high up could at times be hit or miss. On a clear day, one could see from the rolling hills—mountains, really—for miles, stretching from far inland where the forests grew to many leagues out to sea. The forests were thick, forming an armor that prevented the dense fog from penetrating the sheltered earth. The trees, the grasses, and especially the moss glowed as greens are wont to do under the diffused, grey light of an overcast day. The breeze off the ocean had a dampness to it that if one were to stay there for long, they would feel the tackiness of salt on skin. Normally in Narnia, the winds blew from the west, save for some coastal areas such as Glasswater itself, and the clouds would at times get caught in between the two systems over their destination.

The sun was slowly burning through, though, and Edmund could already see a break of the clouds forming over the hill that Peter was swiftly leading them. It was guaranteed to be warmer up there.

In this area to the south of Narnia, the rocks that jutted out from the hills were red due to the richness in iron. They looked like big red cat's claws, earning them their name. History said that the black dwarves used to mine in this hill, way back to the days of King Frank's grandsons, but the hill was since exhausted of its resources. Though unable to offer any goods from its insides, the vantage point at the top offered some brilliant views. The brothers had passed through the area about a half dozen times before, and always found time to sneak off to climb.

Carefully balancing the steaming bowl of his breakfast, Edmund calculated his way up to where Peter was leading him—one rock jutted out impressively about three-quarters of the way up, offering a natural landing at the top, covered in shallow grasses and soft moss. The recent rains signaling the beginning of spring had greened up the entire hillside, providing quite the contrast to the red rocks. It was there that Peter wished to breakfast, at their usual spot. They climbed in silence for several minutes, picking their way through the rough terrain up towards the their destination.

They approached the north side of their destined rock, and Peter scrambled up the side, eventually launching himself over to the top. _He's much too graceful at this hour._ Edmund decided to take a breather underneath first, taking advantage of the coolness in the shade of the shallow cavern before he made the final scramble up the side of the hill. Not only was the day starting to heat up, but his protesting muscles were also starting to feel warm from the hike. Next time, Edmund would know better than to _not_ stretch in the morning.

"Come out from under there and join me, Ed, it's proving to be a truly stunning day!"

Edmund soon made to join Peter up above, the red dust crumbling under his hand as he clawed for handholds. This was truly a stupid idea to try climbing single-handed while carrying a bowl of hot stew. He had no idea how his brother managed it.

_Not really hot anymore now, though, is it? _It would have been much smarter to have stayed under the covers and asked one of satyr aides to have brought him a bowl. How nice it would be to have breakfast-in-cot, with the luxury of taking a nap right afterwards...

"Come _along_, Edmund!

It wasn't fair. With Peter's taller frame, he had a longer reach, and this climb was easier for him. Edmund struggled the last few feet of their climb, barely reaching for the last handhold that hoisted him up high enough to make the last scramble over.

He finally reached high enough that he could pass the bowl to his brother, and Edmund awkwardly heaved himself up over the edge on his side, rolling onto his back in exhaustion. The bright golden sun, though still eastwards, blinded him and he quickly draped an arm over his eyes as a shield.

As Edmund lay upon the rock catching his breath, the cool swirling breeze penetrated through the thin fabric of his shirt. He had developed a sweat from his climb, and the cold air made his skin pucker under his slightly damp sleeves. Edmund kept himself still, allowing the sun and the surface warmth of the rock to seep in. He could also feel a warmth from deep within the rock, the magic emanating from underneath to match the energy the sun provided. He imagined it was the earth at work replenishing the metals that had been taken. It was truly Narnian in nature, an example of something that he had learned the past few years never to question, and it warmed him to the core. With the crook of his arm completely shading his eyes, he was tempted to stay put and let sleep catch up with him. Forget breakfast.

Edmund could hear Peter walking around the top of the rock, with the occasional sound of a boot scuffing and the loud scrape of spoon against bowl as his brother ate while he puttered about, disrupting the natural peace and quiet their perch provided. He heard the sound of a rock being loosened and falling off their perch, landing below in a crunch. _So incredibly loud._A nap was just not in the stars for him. At least not in the company of Peter. Edmund sighed in resignation.

Peeking below his sleeve, Edmund could see the marine layer still creeping along the edges of Glasswater, teasing them with occasional glimpses of the sandy beaches that stretched for miles right up to the Cair. Edmund knew that the early coastal chill would be felt down there when they started their journey home along the coast, so he tried to indulge in just a few more moments of sunlight soaking through the leather of his jerkin.

A rumble in his stomach, though, reminded him that his lukewarm stew was currently sitting by his elbow. He slowly sat up and took the bowl, picking out a piece of grass that had landed in it and flicking it away. _Damn it all_, he thought, realizing his folly. He let out a grumble of annoyance. "Might I borrow your spoon?"

With a laugh, Peter tossed him his utensil. Apparently, he had already finished his bowl. Wiping the spoon on his breeches, he finally dug into his breakfast.

His brother let him eat in silence for a few minutes while he took in the sights. "I suppose there is going to be the usual paperwork when we get back for you, Ed. Any thoughts for the name of our campaign?"

Edmund chewed thoughtfully and swallowed before answering. "I'm thinking either 'The Great Telmar Incursion,' or just the 'Battle of Olvin Valley.' The first sounds nice and epic, something our grandchildren would surely love to read in the history tomes. However, I'm leaning towards the latter since it's more realistic. And I'm a realist."

The Telmarine rumbling on the west coast of Archenland was surprising and unexpected, and Narnia was quick in their response in coming to King Lune's aid. It was a friendship that was growing stronger and stronger since that very welcome first delegation from Anvard arrived at the gates of Cair Paravel four years prior. In solidifying and investing in their alliance by offering help with this latest confrontation, Peter hoped to be able to pull in assistance if—_when_—rumblings to the north towards Ettinsmoor got louder for Narnia.

But the battle with the Telmarines—Edmund thought it was strange that they would even attempt an encounter with Archenland. They were primarily a sea culture, with their country situated on the distant western shore. This was only Edmund's second time encountering them, the first being witness to a delegation the previous summer at Lune's Court. Edmund and his sisters had left Anvard before the Telmarines had, though. Judging by the last couple of weeks of battle, it was apparent that Archenland's negotiations with Telmar had not gone as smoothly as they had with Narnia.

The battle—_A skirmish, really, in the grand scheme of things_, he thought, stabbing at one of the many potato chunks in his stew—proved the Telmarines were vastly ineffectual as land fighters. They were archaic, even, and it was ridiculous of them to even attempt an altercation with the far superior Archenland and its allies. At least now they knew that when they fought Lune, they fought Narnia as well. Overall, it was a successful campaign, though Narnia suffered just over a dozen casualties, with about two score more injured. They could have fared worse, even though Edmund had lost several members of his own company. Sometimes the stupidest of fighters could cause the most damage, and Edmund was annoyed that he lost one of his best throwing knives to such a pathetic army. A petty loss, he knew, given the grand scheme of things. In actuality, the battle did not rest easy on Edmund's mind.

That was all nearly a week ago, and following the battle, Narnia's army broke apart upon their return home. Some groups combed the narrow north-south border of Archenland, picking off the stragglers from the Telmarine army that they witnessed fleeing once they realized all was lost. Another two groups of soldiers traveled south to serve as delegates, Mr. Tumnus being in their company, to pay a quick spring visit to Calormen. The Calormenes never trusted the long silence from Narnia during the winter months, and each year Tumnus would have to return to smooth their tensions and convince them that, no, the slight was not intentional, that their absence was merely one out of pure inconvenience due to the weather, and no, the Witch had not returned.

Edmund found that last part preposterous, but whenever he thought on it, he could feel his heart slipping. He shook his head and scraped the last of the stew out of his bowl. _We should just set up an embassy of some sort to put all that nonsense to a rest_, he thought, though he knew how difficult it would be to find Narnian representatives who both Calormen would find satisfying and who wouldn't mind taking up residence in Tashbaan.

Peter and Edmund had also split up on their return, only just reuniting the evening before. While Peter made a straight-shot across Archenland with his company of soldiers, complete with a night or two's stay in Anvard, Edmund had taken a squad with him along to the north along Glasswater Creek. Flying on a gryphon, Edmund zigzagged above the hills while his bands of mountain Cats and centaurs slowly swept through the thick forests, scouring the area for renegade Telmarines and any last remnants of the Witch's army that still seemed to come out of the woods from time to time.

It was a tedious and dangerous journey that threw Edmund into the role of the reluctant leader once again. Edmund knew he made a good commander, a logical and effective one, but the novelty of it just did not appeal to him as much as he imagined it would at one time of his life. But then again, the alternative of following _anyone_ didn't appeal to him, either, save for his brother.

"It's a pity you weren't with us at Anvard, Ed," Peter interjected. "They had in residence several of the fabled Elephants of Southern Archenland. They were truly a sight to behold!"

That piqued his interest. Peter's methods of idle chatter tended to be effective with Edmund, even at times such as this when he didn't feel much like talking. He set his bowl aside. "Elephants? Were they talking Beasts?"

Peter stepped off from the highest point of the red rock and sat down to join him, unstrapping Rhindon in the process. "They didn't say anything," he said, laying his sword alongside him and lifting his face to the morning sun. "But they had that look about them, you know? I caught one eying me up awfully closely for merely a dumb beast." Peter looked over and gave his temple a few taps. "Regardless, Lune was at least honoring them with the respect such magnificent creatures deserved."

"I do wish I could have seen them."

Peter nodded and looked closely at Edmund. "Reports coming from the west and south indicate everything is going quite well."

"That's relieving to hear," Edmund simply replied.

"It seems that you were stuck with the most difficult journey."

Peter was obviously fishing. "I really don't mind," Edmund said. It was only a slight fib. "There is no better place on—or off, rather—earth for reflection than on the back of a swift-winged gryphon. Being able to observe at such height puts things in a very unique perspective." Edmund noticed a small clump of grass growing in one of the many cracks on the rock and started to pick at the leaves. "There are times that I rather like feeling small."

A hard concept, he was sure, for someone so larger than life as Peter was to even understand. His brother didn't respond, though, and they sat in further silence. They were content for a while, enjoying the brief respite in the sun. Edmund looked over his shoulder and noticed the clouds gathering again in the west. There was definitely another bout of strong weather looming, possibly bringing with it another storm. He turned back and concentrated on splitting a leaf of grass down the middle.

Edmund was quite aware that he would get very self-reflective post-battle. He always had, ever since the First Battle of Beruna. At first, it was purely a reaction of shock. These days, it was out of second-guessing, strategizing after the fact, making sure he had all the details, and to learn from their mistakes so as not to repeat them the next time around.

On top of all that, it offered Edmund time to appreciate his surroundings, what they all had and what they fought for. And to talk to Aslan, whether he was listening or not, for he was making fewer and fewer calls as their reign progressed. Perhaps they were doing things right. Edmund hoped that they were.

"I do not like the idea of a potential enemy on the west, though, Peter," Edmund finally admitted. The fact that they never had even considered the possibility of facing a second threat, as idle as it was, was worrisome. "Maybe we should have driven them back farther into the Wilds, proven more of a point."

"I wouldn't worry about it. This was just a rare occurrence. We're dealing with a seafaring people, after all. It's not as if this world is round and they'll come storming our eastern shore anytime in the near future. That's just silly."

Peter's point made perfect sense to Edmund. Though, so did the concept of a round world. That didn't seem quite as foreign an idea as it should, but then again, he was a thinker and explored most possibilities at least once. Edmund ripped up a few more blades and started tearing them into little pieces.

From their vantage point, the brothers could see down at the bottom of hill where formations of fauns, satyrs and centaurs were gathering. The morning drills would have been already completed—these were obviously the day's training exercises for those in the encampment that were staying behind. There was a natural slope of a large lawn right at the foot of The Claws but just before a cliff that fell shortly to the ocean. It was a truly beautiful section of Narnia, and there were much worse places for one to have to spend hours upon hours training.

The wind could not easily carry the sounds from this high up, but Edmund could hear the occasional call and response of the training songs used by their troops drift up their way on the breeze. Deceptively pretty melodies, ones that his sisters delighted in when they first heard them and would echo as they danced down the halls. Or, rather, Susan would sing them, while Lucy was the one that laughed and danced along. The melody the soldiers were singing now was one that Susan often sang.

His mind drifted to his elder sister. Susan's voice was certainly lovely. It reminded him of someone he once heard, long ago, perhaps on one of their state visits. _One of the singers in Lune's Court that first time we visited?_ When she sang, mainly in the privacy of her siblings, she had the voice of a soothing alto, dark in color. Not at all like his sister Lucy's bright, clear voice...when Lucy was in tune, that is. Edmund and Susan were the only ones with the gift. When Lucy and Peter sang, they would make quite the musical journey across the various keys they would pass through. But Lucy's voice was beautiful nonetheless, in its own special way.

The soldiers below broke into a brief interweaving harmony, the phrase of movements matching the melody they each respectively sang. His sisters weren't too far off—the simpler movements certainly did read as a dance at first glance.

"It's a pity," Edmund sighed. "The thaw is over, Narnia is green again, the days are growing longer...and all it does is prompt stupid people into doing idiotic things such as attacking our friends, keeping us away from what there is to enjoy," Edmund said with disdain. The Telmarine army had first struck Archenland on the first full moon of spring two weeks prior—a time when blood boils and war is once again thirsted for after a long winter. "And it's just going to get worse next month on the next full moon, as it does every year."

Peter nodded. "Well, as they say, 'April is the cruelest month.'"

"What?" Edmund questioned, flicking a bit of grass off the rock. "Who says that?"

His brother's brows furrowed with his frown. "You know...I don't know," Peter admitted. "I'm sure I heard it somewhere. Maybe...maybe in that other place?"

_That other place._A distant memory, one that only Susan seemed to have a clearer grasp on. In the first few years of their reign, of all his siblings, she would mention allusions to their murky past the most. Ones that the rest of them would be slow to recall, if at all. At first, they made the effort to reminisce with her, even setting time aside to do just so. But it became harder and harder for the three of them to remember than it did for Susan, not to mention their growing lack of interest in even trying. It led to much frustration on her part.

"I wish Mother were here. She would make you one of her tall chiffon cakes to at least take with you." It had been a couple weeks prior, when word had just come through from Anvard—they were set to leave immediately, and Susan had called upon him in his rooms as he packed in preparation. She had draped herself in the overstuffed chair by the window. "Do you recall the time, Ed, before that war, when she took us all to that park for your birthday picnic? I want to say it was Victor...Victory Park, or something of the sort."

_And she's off again_, Edmund had thought. "Mind handing me that book by your feet, Su?"

"Oh, of course." She had reached down to pick up the journal and held it out to him. "You and Peter have never left so early in the year on a campaign before. I do wish you could stay around for a few days, even if you can't wait until after your birthday."

"If we only had the choice," he had muttered, more to himself. Edmund had leafed through the book, deciding it was worth packing—it had enough blank pages in it that weren't occupied with his random lists, scribbles and sketches. _Telmarines? What the hell do they have to gain in threatening Archenland? _Edmund had thought as he shoved the book in his leather sack. He had looked up to see Susan gazing sadly out the window towards the bright morning light. "Perhaps you can arrange for a cake upon our return, hmm?"

"It's not the same," she had turned her attention back to the room and smoothed the imaginary wrinkles in her dress. "Nothing could beat Mother's cakes with her wonderful lemon glaze."

Leaning against his desk, Edmund had merely looked down to watch Susan's hands idly move across her skirts. _Poor, dear Susan._"I'm sorry, I don't remember them," he had gently admitted. "Or her anymore, to be honest."

Susan had looked up to meet his eyes. "But Mother!" she had exclaimed. "You don't—you don't at all?"

Edmund could only shake his head in response, and had turned away to finish gathering parchment and ink from his desk. He hated seeing her like this. _I should really consider acquiring a larger bag, one that could fit_ all _the contents of my desk that I am loathe to leave behind._

But Susan had not been done pleading. "What about...what about how Mother used to hold you—and you would sing together, back when you were very young. Don't you _remember_?"

The way Susan would always conclude those talks with that last desperate question brought out a sense of guilt in Edmund. It was apparent that that connection between him and his mother, something he could vaguely remember even at the best of times, obviously meant something to her. "But you even have her eyes, Ed!"

After a few years, Susan had slowly given up on mentioning it, the instance a few weeks prior being the first in many months. As they recalled their past less and less, she pushed for them to remember fewer times than before. Whether she slowly started to in turn forget or not, Edmund did not know. It never even occurred to him to ask. For some reason, though, he felt that Susan never gave up, would work against the trickle, the easy feeling of forgetting that they all felt. Edmund knew it was a puzzle that haunted Susan, presenting a logic she just couldn't explain.

Edmund realized he was the most understanding of Susan, knowing what it feels like to have something weigh heavily on your heart and soul. Though even his sister would be the first to admit that whatever haunts her memories pales in comparison to those that haunt his—what he would give for flashbacks of warm eyes and close hugs.

"It hasn't been exactly fair for you, has it?" Peter asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Edmund felt a pang of anxiety in his gut at the direction his brother's conversation was taking them. "How do you mean?"

Peter took a moment before responding, his focus momentarily taken by the troops training below. A lone voice sang out three notes, and a chorus responded, swords thrusting in unison. "What was thrown at us when we first arrived. We were all quite young, granted. But I don't know if I could have handled what you had to at the age you were. I barely managed at thirteen." The chorus split up in two parts, one half advancing in treble, the other retreating in a baritone harmony. "And now this. This going off to battle every spring, as we have for the past several years."

Edmund didn't say anything. He stretched out one foot in front of him and noticed the toe of his boot looking rather worn. A little too worn.

"It isn't fair that you never got a proper childhood. Boys should be collecting bugs, playing games with friends, climbing trees...or even having pretend battles with stick swords." Peter looked pointedly at Edmund. "No boy, no child should have gone through what you have."

"Are those things you did when you were ten, Peter?" he countered.

Peter looked thoughtful. "I don't know. I don't remember much of being a child—but that's just part of growing up, I'm sure."

His brother had a point. Perhaps that was the reason their past was so blurry. _Maybe Susan just has an extraordinary memory._He considered filing it away to think upon further, but since he didn't bring a journal with him to breakfast, he was likely to forget to add it to his daily scribbles of random thoughts.

"We were all forced to practically grow up overnight, weren't we, though? None as much as you have, Peter, I'm sure. Or Lucy," Edmund added.

His brother emphatically shook his head. "I disagree. I've always been used to being the eldest, taking care of you lot." He said the last bit lightly. "And Lucy had the benefit of always having the three of us to look after her. None of us had to overcome the obstacles that you did."

Edmund was silent. They were teetering into dangerous territory. His heart was racing with the anticipation of finally sharing, of letting go of the troubling thoughts he shared with no one. But there was also the fear of dredging things up, bringing them to the surface and making them even more apparent. He preferred to keep things buried, when on the good days they would rarely make themselves known. That part of him was holding tightly to the dark thoughts, putting up a good fight in not wanting to let go.

"Do you feel her, Edmund?"

Edmund felt a cramp form under his bent leg and stretched it out. It was the one question he had hoped his siblings would never ask, inevitable as it was. He was unsure what it was that had finally prompted Peter to ask this after all these years. Edmund sighed. "Yes. No... I—I'm not sure how to describe it," he said. "I don't feel like I did when she was alive and present."

Peter kept quiet, listening intently. A draft of wind came from behind, ruffling his light hair out of place.

"But there is something there, something that is growing," Edmund admitted, his voice cracking. He started picking more grass and shredding them in a pile. "It's a dark place. I don't feel in control of it, and that frightens me. That not even the brightest days in Narnia could ever make it go away."

"You mean like a shadow?" Peter prodded gently.

Edmund swallowed. He felt suddenly exposed, sitting with his brother discussing such things out in the open on top of The Claws. "Yes. Yes, like a shadow," he said. "It's a dark and heavy weight that I cannot shake off, and I can't tell if it's me or just an imprint that—that she left on me."

"Well, there's nothing wrong with shadows, Ed. You can't have shadows without light, after all."

"But you _can_ have light _without _a shadow," Edmund countered. "Right?"

That gave Peter pause. "That's true," he slowly said. "But it doesn't seem very bright without the comparison."

Edmund looked dumbly over at his brother. "It's been _eight years_ of this, Peter. Eight years of the nightmares, of waking up not knowing where I am, not being able to _breathe_." His brother had no idea what it was like to have her influence inhabit his very being. It was a feeling he would not wish on anybody, and there was no way for Peter, nor anyone else, to ever comprehend what it all entailed, save for the Lion himself. "Are you saying that I _should _feel this way?" he scoffed.

"I did not say that." Peter reached over and placed a hand on Edmund's shoulder. "She is _gone_, Edmund. Truly gone. And we are on the brink of fully annihilating her remaining followers."

"Yes, I am fully aware of that, Peter," Edmund snapped in reply, shaking his brother's hand off. Only too aware, and it was easy for Peter to say this. _He_ wasn't the one to have encountered the remnants the past couple of years. No matter if it was luck or by the will of Aslan, Edmund was not amused by the odds working in Peter's favor in that regard.

"Stop it. I am also fully aware of the circumstances," Peter admonished, his voice rising. "I know, and I am truly sorry you have had to take on the brunt of it yourself these past few times."

Edmund glared darkly at the pile of shredded grass. Those last few times amounted to five bloody altercations, which led to six fatalities. _Seven_, Edmund corrected himself, thinking of the other night. _Seven of whom I considered my friends._

"But how much of this really is about her? You said before that you can't feel her directly anymore, right? Not like when she was alive?"

Edmund nodded slowly. He did say that earlier, that it was vastly different than before. The release had begun before she even died, back when the wand had been broken. He remembered the feeling of hearing the wand snap under his sword, how his breath was literally taken away, struck with a sense of shock that left him momentarily dazed. That same moment that left him completely numb and vulnerable. The mental force was gone, swiftly replaced with the physical one in which she struck him down in retaliation.

And then Peter came, and then Aslan, and then Lucy, and then it was all over. In a span of mere minutes, the physical pain was released, the psychological attack—though slightly eased after his talk with Aslan that dewy morning—had ceased, and Edmund was left behind with this shadow.

"And the nightmares. Are they nightly?" Peter continued. "Are they a regular occurrence, or do they happen more when you're reminded of what happened before?"

Edmund considered the most recent instances, including the night before last. He had slept under the stars, but had woken up in the middle of the night feeling constrained, not being able to move. They had only just burned the last minotaur hours prior at sunset and buried good Kavalus the Leopard soon after when the moon rose. "I suppose it's the latter."

"And you actually slept well last night, did you not?" Peter questioned.

Edmund blinked. "I did, actually," he conceded.

Peter sat back and looked up to the sky. "The memories will never go away, Ed. You just cannot let the darkness of her memory overtake _you_. You're not fighting her demons anymore. It sounds more like you're fighting your own," Peter concluded.

Edmund understood what his brother was saying, but didn't completely agree. _She'll always be a part of me, Pete. Even if she does seem to be gone._

"Suppose I am mainly fighting my own demons then, as you say. Then I wish there was something to fill the dark place. I'd like to feel whole, and I don't know if that's possible," Edmund muttered, looking back down at his grass pile. He spread them out on the red rock with the palm of his hand.

"You already are whole," Peter's tone had softened, and he waited until Edmund had shifted his attention out towards the grey sea before continuing. "It's merely an aspect of yourself you have yet to master. But it's who you are now. Our experiences shape us, after all."

"Even though my experiences are of the most wicked sort," Edmund added.

"Yes, even though," Peter agreed. "You have a brilliant mind, Ed. Maybe there's a way you can find a way to embrace this shadow aspect and use it to your advantage. You're King—you have the power to do that."

The musical sounds of the training exercises from below drifted to a close. There was one last call from the leader, and one chorus response that Edmund found himself automatically humming along with. The company broke formation and individuals formally clasped their mock opponents' arms in respect before drifting back towards camp.

Edmund glanced over at Peter and found him gazing proudly on the departing soldiers.

His brother eventually turned back to him with a hesitant smile. "You know, we all have our own shadows, Edmund," Peter admitted.

Edmund stared dumbly at his brother. He could not imagine what sort of troubled thoughts Peter may possess. True, he had the expected challenges and difficulties of being High King, but he managed to take them all in stride, being the strong and charismatic leader that he was. And Lucy! Brilliant Lucy, with her bright eyes of constant mirth and hope...what dark aspects could they ever possess within themselves?

"We are all like the moon up there," Peter said, pointing above. There was still a dwindling patch of blue sky between the greyness above the ocean and the system from the west, and the small half-moon peeked through. "You can't fault her for her darker half, can you? She waxes and wanes—it's just her nature and nothing will change that. We can't change her. We have no business in doing so."

Edmund met his brother's kind gaze. Sometimes Peter had the ridiculous ability to state something in the simplest of terms, things that would take Edmund an entire afternoon to comprehend and define. But it was true, all of what he said. "This is getting all too allegorical for my tastes," Edmund sniffed.

"But it all makes sense, doesn't it?"

Edmund didn't say anything. He watched a gust of wind blow away the grass pieces, leaving only a few behind. He slowly brushed away the rest.

Peter sighed in frustration, causing Edmund to look up. Peter looked like he didn't believe he had gotten point across. Edmund, for some reason or another, chose not to assure him that he had and stayed quiet.

"Who knows what the future holds, Ed. You've come far these past eight years since our coronation, and I am very proud of you. And you're still growing, after all," Peter offered. "Maybe it's just a hint of growing pains that are affecting you—I know I've experienced my share," he said, turning to face the sea.

It was much to think about. He was glad there were still a few days' journeying before they arrived at the gates of Cair Paravel, and even more glad that he had blank pages left in his journal. There were many thoughts to organize, thoughts that were best considered in the solitude that only flight provided. _I need to master the art of writing while balancing on a flying gryphon._

And when they got home, he was eager to consult with Susan. Lately, she seemed to be there more for him, to thoughtfully approach him when she noticed him out of sorts. The offer was there, his for the taking, but perhaps Edmund had just been too unready, too immature to seek out her counsel. Maybe it was time to remedy that.

Peter stood up and stretched. "Come on," he said, kicking Edmund's boot. "We best be off before it starts raining. And it looks like there's still quite a bit of progress that needs to be made down in camp before we can head out."

His mind still whirling with everything his brother said, Edmund braced himself to stand. With a groan, Edmund slowly staggered to his feet.

"Sore?" Peter teased.

Edmund grunted again and gave his side a slight stretch. "Quite." When flying on a gryphon, there was no walk to trot to canter to run. There was just _fly_, and his entire body was feeling all five—_Six?_—days of doing just that. His back protested as he stooped down to pick up their two bowls from breakfast.

His brother strapped Rhindon back around his waist. "Maybe we should have gotten up and done our drills," Peter offered. "You'd feel a lot better then."

Edmund merely glared at his brother and rudely gestured for him to lead the way. After a mock salute and a laugh, Peter sat on the edge of the rock and launched himself down to the small landing below. Once he tossed the bowls down to Peter, Edmund did the same, and the brothers started their trek down.

The edge of a large storm cloud had already swallowed the waning moon and was swiftly threatening taking the sun with it. The breeze also picked up at that time, blowing a strong chill wind amongst the wild green grasses that were slowly replacing the mossy rocks the closer they got to the bottom. Edmund looked down and saw a few tiny purple blooms peeking along the trail. Crocuses, he proudly remembered. And amongst those, taller stalks—"Those are daffodils, Ed, just like the ones on Susan's crown!" Lucy had taught him—were on the brink of blooming, their tight pale green and yellow buds ready to open.

Edmund got lost in the wild beauty, absolutely amazed that one hillside alone could provide a shower of reds, greens, yellows, and purples, all glowing in the grey light of the morning. _This is what we fought for_, he reminded himself. _And the reason why I still feel the way I do after all these years._

"Ow! Damn it." Edmund was so caught up in his thoughts that he did not notice the jutting rock until it was too late.

Peter stopped and turned. "What's wrong?"

"My foot." Edmund stooped down and gave his now exposed big toe a poke. A dumb move, and he hissed in pain. "It's bleeding. My boot is completely worn through—I just dragged my foot against the rock here."

Peter took a step up to bend over and take a look for himself. "You'll live."

"I know, it's the principle of the matter," Edmund retorted. _Ow._

Peter looked back and forth between his boots. "Didn't you just have those made?"

"Yes, and they're still not completely broken in, either. Damn. I don't think they're even worth fixing. Come to mention it," Edmund paused, wiggling his toes, "The right one also feels rather tight. Damn," he repeated. "I rather liked these..."

"Well, you're a growing boy!" Peter said, with a rough, yet affectionate, rub to his head.

Edmund slapped him away. "Oi, cut it out..."

Peter merely laughed and continued down the rocky path. Edmund tucked the flap of leather around his red, sticky toe, and followed him.

His thoughts soon returned to their earlier conversation. Peter did have an interesting idea of using his own state of mind to his advantage, maybe even taking the whole idea literally. _Why not? I_ like _keeping to the dark corners. _If it was an element and tactic that he could actually embrace, as his brother suggested, he could use it to help protect Narnia. He could stick to the shadows where he could remain the keen observer without attracting attention. Pick up on the subtle cues and energies that his brother might miss in at state dinners, political negotiations, or even the battlefield.

_I could leave the light to Peter_, Edmund thought. Edmund didn't particularly like being the center of attention anyway. He preferred quiet acknowledgement of his achievements over public recognition. He had been in the spotlight once before, and that was enough for him.

"I hope my armor is ready. Have to look good for home and to face the subjects, after all," Peter jokingly called back to him. "And let's make sure to grab some of those apples for Lucy. She'll be absolutely delighted to see them, especially at this time of year."

Edmund didn't answer and instead concentrated on climbing down a tricky part of the path, trying his best to ignore the sting in his toe.

The sun had finally succumbed to the threat of the storm clouds just as they reached the halfway point off the small mountain. The two stopped for a short respite before continuing. Edmund observed that climbing down could be deceptively harder than climbing up. The brothers looked out towards the east and noticed a second wave of soldiers were arriving at the grounds, lining up in formations to begin the ritualistic training exercises.

"You really need not be so hard on yourself, Edmund," Peter said, breaking the silence. Edmund broke his gaze from the troops to look at him. "After all, whatever struggles I have faced over the years, you have also taken upon yourself and have handled it all brilliantly, even at such a young age as you were when we were first crowned."

Edmund looked down at his bloody toe, uncomfortable with the praise his brother was offering. "Really, Peter..." A gust of wind came up, blowing a dark lock into his eyes and in the distance came the first roll of thunder.

Peter merely shrugged. "Well, it's true," he said. He turned to look over the soldiers as they began singing. "You've grown a lot. And you teach me how to be a better leader every day." Without waiting for an answer, Peter continued down the path towards camp.

But Edmund felt he still had so far to go—a knot of fear still sat in the pit of his stomach, despite all that his brother had said. There was much to plan and much to confront within himself before he felt he actually lived up the standards Peter claimed he did.

The first slow plops of rain started pelting his shoulders just as another roll of thunder echoed and bounced off the hills around him. With one last glance down towards the troops, Edmund frowned, and continued climbing down off The Claws.


	2. DICHOTOMY: WAXING

**DICHOTOMY: WAXING  
>Finchley, London, U.K. March 18, 1948.<strong>

* * *

><p>Staring up ahead at the statue, Edmund smiled, and continued walking east on Chessington Avenue. The form was beautiful and dangerous, a tall, towering woman with her arms stretched towards the heavens, brandishing a sword.<p>

_Deliverance_, they had called it, those that remembered The Great War. And then there were those that did not, and they called it _The Wicked Woman_.

A similar woman once offered deliverance to him. It had been a false promise. _The statue is in the incorrect form_, Edmund mused as he approached to face it. _The Wicked Woman did not offer deliverance, the Lion did._

"Always the liar, weren't you? How's it like being the statue for once?" he said aloud, letting out a humorless laugh. Edmund looked up at her tilted face, the cool moonlit beauty of it drawing him in. His smile abruptly fell, and he pulled his collar higher up on his neck in a futile attempt to kill the unexpected chill creeping up his spine. He hurried on, eyes diverted, turning away from Henly's Corner on to Regent's Park Road. There was no point in reliving those nasty aspects of his childhood. His first childhood, that is.

Edmund let out a huff of frustration. The concept of two childhoods was rather annoying to him. The timeline was not forward in his brain—timelines should _not _have hard angles in them. They should be simple and straightforward. To be otherwise was unnatural and perplexing, and it gave him a headache whenever he thought too much about it. Something that was more commonplace than not.

He was finally becoming settled in his adult body once again. It was strange, amusing even, knowing what to expect. Voice change at thirteen. _Check_. Growth spurt the summer of his fifteenth year. _Check_. Having to upgrade his boot size twice in two months...well, that definitely must have happened around his eighteenth birthday in Narnia since he just last week had to purchase his second pair of oxfords since starting this last term. _Check_.

The physical aspects were very comparable, but he never mentally reverted that fateful day they all fell out of the wardrobe and began his second childhood. His adult wits were still about him—a fact that was both a blessing and a curse.

Edmund's emotional transition was difficult and very different the second time around. The hormones just weren't the same when they returned to England. While maintaining adult intelligence, he had to suffer through adolescence in a completely different manner than he had in Narnia. Despite his mental state being intact, he found that his maturity was completely compromised. The pubescent rages he would suffer were just plain embarrassing—well, both times—but the second time around he was actually _aware _of what an ass he was being. The jealousies, the achievements, the eventual attractions and other such experiences were much more heightened. Even the age when his eye first wandered towards the fairer sex both in Narnia and London was also different.

Edmund frowned. Well, that really wasn't very comparable once he thought about it. He never even saw any other humans, let alone girls, until a couple of years into his reign.

_Women_, Edmund mentally corrected himself. _The sisters Nelian of Archenland were most definitely women._ He dug around his inside breast pocket and slipped out his cigarette case, fingering for a matchbook in his trousers with his other hand.

By the time they left Narnia, he was technically already in his emotionally mature prime, though upon his return to England, he found his young peers dull in comparison to the adult company to which he was accustomed. He still longed for companionship at first, but the pheromonal attraction that existed before was entirely lost, at least for the first couple of years. Edmund found himself reverting to the emotional state he was the first time he was ten, causing his emotional timeline to be even more jagged than the physical one. But now that he was nearly all caught up, an adult again in body _and_ soul...

Edmund deftly snapped the case closed, having already inserted one of its contents between his smiling lips. The match lit on the third stroke—_damned balmy weather_—and he was soon taking a long-anticipated drag off of the cigarette.

There was much to look forward to, that was for sure. The company and conversation he found in his Physics and Philosophy classes and even at the pubs scattered around Cambridge—ones he frequented far too regularly, even he could admit—were much more satisfying than what he had to suffer in Finchley the few years prior. It was extremely rewarding to be once again intellectually challenged. The girls at the pubs there were certainly more intelligent and prettier. Also, having taken up with the University Fencing Club, Edmund found himself growing stronger and stronger every day. He soon should reach his physical prime if he kept up his practice. And though it was still quite a ways off, there was the extra two inch growth spurt he should expect right before his twenty-third birthday, which would make him almost as tall as Peter. That was an unexpected development in Narnia, one that only half-kiddingly irked his brother.

But most of all, his heart was lighter, far lighter than he could ever remember it being in Narnia, any of the three times he was there. Just the ease of knowing that he could live the rest of his life without the Wicked Woman's slight taint was reason enough to celebrate.

_Yes_, Edmund thought, flicking away some ash and taking another drag. _There certainly_ is _plenty to look forward to._

The sound of a car coming from behind made Edmund stop and turn. A Wolseley Ten was rumbling towards him, the headlights engulfing his surroundings in a yellow light. The windows were down, and he could hear laughter and conversation along with the view of several heads bopping along inside. He could see it was overly crowded with both males and females of his age. The black car slowly lumbered past him, a plume of exhaust shooting out from behind almost obscuring the rear window, but Edmund saw a familiar shape of a woman's head turn to look at him—one that may or not have been of his sister.

The car disappeared into the distance, but the noxious smell of exhaust lingered around him and the darkness. _Damned stench always clings to my wool coat. _Edmund sadly dropped his cigarette onto the pavement and stamped it out before continuing north towards the direction the car was headed.

Edmund missed Susan. He was fairly certain that she missed him in turn. It was at this age in Narnia when he and Susan grew close, when he approached his adult years, when he first started to get a leg up on the permeating darkness he felt in Narnia. Peter and Lucy were of a different mold, and though sympathetic and always eager to lend an ear, they didn't understand his thought processes as much as Susan could. She had been his confidante, and now she wasn't.

They still tried to make an effort. She had specifically arranged to call him at Cambridge just for his birthday the week prior, but the conversation lacked depth, having little in common and very little to talk about. It was merely a short and stilted back-and-forth, nothing more than exchanging pleasantries. A far cry from the hours upon hours they would often talk into the early hours of the morning over a bottle of brandy. It saddened him.

As Edmund crossed the road, he recalled their conversation right before he left home. He had already tried earlier that morning to cajole her into coming with him to the railway station, for after all, it had been since Christmas since she had even spoke to their brother. But she could not be convinced. Plans had made "weeks prior, Ed, I surely couldn't turn my friends down now, they would be devastated!"

In one last ditch effort just before he left the house, he had knocked on the door of her room to see her leaning over her dressing table, already dressed to the nines, applying a thick coat of mascara on her lashes. "Are you off to the station then, Ed?"

"I am," Edmund had replied, leaning against the door frame. He had to admit she was just as beautiful, if not more so, as she was in Narnia. It was at this age when the formal requests, "betrothal parties" and even the occasional presumptuous lone callers had started trickling in, from Terebinthia all the way to Calormen. It was also at this time that Susan would seek out Edmund's counsel, expressing her anxiety and fear of the pressure she was feeling all around—a task their elder brother couldn't fulfill as he was torn between duty to family and duty to the state.

"Are you sure you can't reschedule with your friends?" he had asked. "I mean, when was the last time you saw them and when was the last time you saw your own brother?"

Susan had turned apologetically towards Edmund. He had hoped his pathetic plea might have worked this time, as such methods had worked before. No such luck, though. "I'm sorry, my ride will be here within the hour," she had said, turning back to the mirror.

Edmund had sighed. It had been worth the shot to try to reunite his siblings together for a nice evening of benign conversation.

"Besides," Susan had hesitatingly continued. "It—it's hard to talk with Peter these days. He gets so frustrated with me." Susan had frowned at herself in the mirror, twisting the mascara brush between her fingers. "I feel like I'm in the dark about something. That he's angry with me for some reason, that he's holding something against me, even though I don't know what it _is_."

Edmund had sympathized with their brother's personal campaign with her, to force her to _remember_, though he didn't necessarily agree with Peter's confrontational tactics.

Edmund knew his sister better, and had tried his own preferred method. He had walked up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders and allowed himself a whiff of her delicate perfume to calm him. Lavender, just like she had worn in Narnia. "The sheer amount of effort alone you are putting in your appearance, you would think the entirety of Lune's Court was requesting your presence. With suitors in their finest fineries, lined up across the hall."

"'Finest fineries,' Ed?" she had snorted, setting down the lipstick she had just applied. But then her head had tilted in puzzlement. "Lunescourt? Is that a college at Cambridge?"

"No. No, it's not." With a sad sigh, Edmund had pulled on one of her dark curls. "Never mind, Su. Enjoy your evening, all right?"

Susan had smiled brightly at his reflection in the mirror. After one last tweak of her eyelashes, she had stood and turned to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "Do tell Peter I was sorry to have missed him, though."

"I will."

Unlike Peter, and occasionally Lucy, he could not find it in his heart to begrudge Susan her forgetfulness. Susan was happy—thriving even—here in England. _It's very, very natural to forget the past. The farther away, the easier, that's all_, Edmund thought. _It's just human nature._

The sight of the busier section of town up ahead brought his attention back to the present. Storefronts and signs were lit up, and cars and pedestrians alike were increasing in numbers. Though it was a weeknight, it was rather late out and much quieter than he anticipated. Then again, London was much quieter than before, during the war. The rest of the summer they spent recuperating at the Professor's estate had been relatively peaceful, but upon their return to London, all of them were taken aback at how _noisy _it was. The air raid sirens were still a constant occurrence, as were the fly-overs of Spitfires and Lancasters. But in addition to that clatter were the normal sounds of car engines and horns, pedestrians on the street, the neighbor's radio blasting reports from the war through their open window polluting their neighborhood.

Granted, Cair Paravel had its own cacophony of hooves on cobblestone, singing nymphs, laughing fauns, whistles, barks, brays, neighs, and the occasional roar. But at least all those sounds were _natural_. Narnia was practically silent in comparison to the mechanical sounds of London.

This night was proving to be a rather peaceful one for Finchley, and Edmund followed the curve of the road, turning down Nether Street towards Finchley Central station to meet his brother.

Edmund arrived at the top of the steps leading down to the platform and glanced down at his watch. Finding himself a few minutes early, he looked about to find a place to wait that wasn't so in the open. A nearby alley seemed suitable for his needs, and he quietly made his way over to wait, stepping around the metal grates that would have clunked underfoot were he to walk on them. After a few moments of waiting, he heard the sound of the train underneath squealing to a stop, and soon afterwards, saw his brother slowly lumbering up the stairs, bags in hand.

With a quick glance around, Peter immediately turned towards him and made his way over. There was absolutely no reason for him to have been able to recognize Edmund's stature in the dark. Edmund, after all, prided in knowing that he remained indistinguishable in such places. But he also knew that Peter was used to finding him in said places.

Peter dropped his bags, and the brothers quickly embraced, without Peter uttering a word—something quite unlike him. "How was the trip?" Edmund said to break the silence once they broke apart.

"Good. On time, no complaints." Peter shouldered his leather rucksack, allowing Edmund to take the small suitcase.

Edmund bit his tongue, choosing not to argue. Peter was _supposed_ to be on the earlier train that came in the afternoon, but had telephoned at the last minute to say he pushed his trip back, so he _was _late. Actually, if Edmund wanted to get technical, Peter was originally supposed to come home days earlier—Hilary Term had ended the previous Saturday, and Peter always came back to Finchley immediately following the end of term. "You seem beat."

"I am." Another curt reply.

"Would you prefer to go straight home, then? Mother kept a plate warm for you, I know, when she learned you were coming in later. She made a roast and everything, just for you."

That perked him up. "Mash? With drippings?"

"Sorry, no. Just drippings, I'm afraid."

"When will this damned rationing ever end." Edmund noted that it wasn't a question. "Ridiculous. It just isn't Mother's roast without her potatoes."

"Apparently she used them up for Sunday dinner." Edmund couldn't help himself, and followed with, "You know...when she was expecting you?"

Peter let out a long sigh, his breath fogging in the cool March air as they slowly made their way down the street. "I just needed some time to myself. To think over things without all the distractions." Peter threw him a quick reassuring smile, something that Edmund interpreted as an afterthought. "Is—is there somewhere we can go first? I'm not quite ready to face the subjects." Peter shook his head in bewilderment. "I'm sorry, that was rather callous to say. I'm just...I'm just not in the mood to see everyone just yet. Is there a place for a drink nearby?"

"Sure. I was planning on it, but I assumed by your late start that you would have eaten already."

Peter shook his head and readjusted his bag. "I had a sandwich at lunch, but I'm good for a drink or two." He absentmindedly looked at their surroundings. "Did you take a cab?"

"No, it's a nice night, the weather actually decent. I figured a walk was in order," he said. "I've enough on me, though. We can take one back home if we need to," Edmund offered.

But Peter didn't respond. With a tilt of his head pointing the way, Edmund started towards the pub he had in mind. Peter trailed behind him, not even attempting to catch up to him.

It being already late, Edmund hadn't bothered informing their mother not to expect the two of them back anytime soon. Once they heard from Peter and his new arrival time, Lucy offered to help clean up after dinner and keep her busy while Susan went out, allowing Edmund a chance to plan on some one-on-one time with their brother. Lucy was a real doll—their mother was clearly disappointed, having prepared a second large meal in a week in preparation for her eldest' arrival. Edmund often found himself at a loss when it came to dealing with consoling his mother, something that occurred frequently with the war and their father being on assignment. He loved her dearly, but they differed too much to be as close as she was with Peter or Lucy. Or as close as he was to her _before_.

It was funny for Edmund to think that there was a time when he couldn't remember the Sunday roasts or the sound of Helen Pevensie softly singing to herself while dusting the parlor. Both he and Susan had inherited their mother's gift, though besides their looks, that was the extent that either of them shared with her. Edmund could remember back when he was very young and they would sing together, he and his mother, with Susan occasionally joining in, often dissolving into laughter as all three were prone to forget the lyrics. That was before the war and before Narnia, though. Before things changed.

Even Susan rarely sang anymore. Lucy once confided to him that she would occasionally overhear their sister singing snippets of Narnian ballads and battle songs, but those times were few and far between, and often cut short, as the memory of the melodies would drift away from her.

Edmund rarely sang either, much to the annoyance of his roommate at Bodley's Court. Colin himself was a Choral Scholar with the King's Choir, and once he heard Edmund sing a rather bawdy song one drunken evening at a pub, he has since given him non-stop heat for not having tried for the choir when he was first admitted.

"I would have, Col," he had first told his friend, "but I didn't think they would have accepted 'To Anacreon in Heaven' as suitable audition material." In truth, Edmund usually preferred to keep that aspect of himself private, as Susan had in Narnia, something to be shared only with family.

Presently being in the company of just his brother, Edmund started humming to the rhythm of Peter's loud footsteps, but only to mask the annoying sound. Peter had always been good at walking with a purpose. The _click-click-clicking_ of his loud heels on pavement was unnerving enough—_Damn it, he's even loud when he's out of sorts_—but Edmund was also uncomfortable with his brother following him. It should be the other way around. He hated taking the lead.

They walked along that way for a while, crossing the main road and towards their destination, Edmund humming and Peter walking in step, until Peter caught on to what his brother was doing. He deliberately changed his tempo, forcing Edmund to slow down or speed up to keep with his pace. It was enough to finally elicit a small laugh from Peter as they reached the pub.

While the old inn was well lit on the outside, the windows merely glowed with the comforting, diffused yellow light that seemed to be a staple for any decent public house. It was definitely old, well-established, and rough around the edges. The sign hanging on the post outside squeaked as it swayed in the gentle wind.

"The 'King of Prussia,' huh? I've never stopped in before," Peter mused.

"Me neither. But we've passed by it enough. And it's never too late to become a regular, as I always say." Edmund grinned broadly and reached for the wood handle of the front door.

The heavy door opened with the distinct squeak that only an oak door of several centuries could make. The warmth of the pub permeated Edmund's senses, along with the clink of glasses, the dulled sound of conversation, the smell of spilled liquor and many, many regrets. There was a familiarity in the dark polished wood, the slight stickiness to the floors, the undercurrent of stale smoke wafting through the air. _Ahhh, home._

Edmund held the door open for his brother before shutting it tightly behind them. The pub was rather stifling, prompting him to remove his coat on instinct. It being a weeknight and rather on the early side, there were few patrons by the look of the available pegs on the coat stand.

He automatically reached for Peter's coat to hang it beside his and led the way past several empty tables without acknowledging the sudden lull in conversation and twisting of heads to watch as the two brothers passed through the room. He knew they tended to have that effect when either of them entered a public establishment. Personally, he usually preferred to play down that aspect of himself, but for the benefit of his brother and his strange mood, he decided to give in to what he normally considered a ridiculous abuse of power.

Edmund had his sights across the room. It was pure instinct—Edmund never allowed his back to face the front door and always took a seat with the best vantage point. That point usually happened to be in the darkest, farthest corner. The King of Prussia did not disappoint in that regard, and they soon situated themselves on the stools at the far end of the bar, tucking Peter's bags underfoot.

After ordering their drinks, the brothers drank in silence, taking the time to absorb their surroundings and let the alcohol permeate their senses before making idle conversation. A slow trickle of newcomers came through the door, the squeaks and the slams of the front door announcing their arrivals. The middle-aged barkeep would look up from his seat at the other end of the bar to only acknowledge the regulars, but even then only with a nod, and his attention would be returned to his racing papers.

While Peter quietly nursed his drink, Edmund took advantage of the rare opportunity his brother was providing to observe his surroundings a bit more. He looked over the rows of liquor bottles at the copious amount of yellowed pictures and faded photographs lining the back wall amongst the occasional trophy and plaque sprinkled here and there. Images of foreign monarchs, patrons and owners past stared down at him, all represented in printed portraits, black and white photographs and daguerreotypes. He imagined they were long gone and forgotten, even though the vast majority of them had been alive in the last century alone. A blink of the eye in comparison to their time away from Narnia between their first and second visits. It was a disconcerting notion, one that he did not like to think upon regardless of how often it _did_ invade his thoughts.

There was another squeak and a slam at the front door, which prompted him to break his gaze and polish off the remainder of his gin. Setting his glass aside, he idly picked up the paper coaster that was wet from condensation from his glass, rubbing his thumb along the edge to separate the layers. And waited for his brother to say something. Anything. Edmund wondered if Peter would be offended if he stepped outside for a smoke.

But Peter just sat there, his gaze unfocused, staring across at the liquor bottles. Edmund sighed, deciding against asking for permission to leave, and flipped the coaster between his fingers. He shifted his attention back to behind the bar, picking out which one of the portraits may have held the namesake of the establishment, while his brother continued to nurse his scotch in silence. It was making out to be a very, very long evening. _I bet it's one of the ones with the facial hair. They all look rather German._

"Budge up, will ya?" Edmund heard coming from behind Peter.

Edmund looked up to see a young woman blinking vacantly at him over Peter's shoulder, standing next to the man who had rudely spoken. A _very_ young woman. Edmund suddenly felt really old. Thankfully the age of her companion made him feel a bit better. The newly arrived patron and his much younger companion had approached their end to nab the last empty seats of the bar—the place was apparently filling up fast.

Peter swiveled in his stool and politely looked up, which was enough for the middle-aged man to avert his eyes and scoot his empty seat in the opposite direction, closer to his date. His brother had that effect on others without even trying. It was as if Peter was too much of a person for England, even as others moved to make room for him. Edmund, on the other hand, considered himself flexible and always found places he could squeeze to fit.

"It's ironic, don't you think?" Edmund said once his brother turned back after the wordless exchange. "People prefer to keep a wider berth here in England than they ever did in Narnia, yet there is much less room to do so here."

"It's damn well claustrophobic here, you mean," Peter muttered, taking a long drink.

"That, too." Edmund wished for a refill, but wanted to keep pace with his brother. He slid his eyes over to gauge the progress of Peter's scotch glass.

"Can you imagine, Ed?" Peter mused, scanning the photographs on the back wall. "What if we had taverns named after us in Narnia?"

Edmund shrugged and took another drink. "Better a tavern than a tavern bastard."

Peter's glass stopped halfway up. "I do hope you're joking—"

"Well, I'm in the clear. But I can only speak for myself," Edmund added, relieved that Peter was finally talking. Narnia was usually a comforting topic between them. "I recall several instances when your whereabouts were unaccounted for in Anvard."

Peter pursed his lips in mild annoyance, but stopped short of supplying a retort. The ice had finally been broken, though, and there was no going back. Peter quickly recovered with a smile and a slap on Edmund's shoulder. "Perhaps another round is in order," he said around a mild laugh, and he flagged down the bartender. _That_ was the Peter he knew.

Edmund watched the barkeep set down his paper, shuffle down to their corner and emit a low grunt in recognition.

"Another scotch. Neat, please." Peter watched Edmund as he polished off the rest of his first glass. "May as well make it a double. Ed?"

"Gin and tonic, on the rocks, thank you."

With a wary eye, the barkeep grunted in response. Edmund mused that he most likely wasn't used to such niceties as _pleases_ and _thank yous_. He decided to play it up.

"Excuse me, good sir?" he formally asked when the bartender returned, drinks in hand. "Which king, might I ask?"

The man's weathered face contorted in confusion. "Hunh?"

"King of Prussia. Which one?"

"Which one's head, rather," Peter contributed, pointing to the weathered, hand-lettered sign hanging above the register: KING OF PRUSSIA'S HEAD.

"Hell if I know," he sniffed, palming the coins Edmund put on the counter for the two drinks. "Used to be just 'The King's Head.' Was 'The Red Lion' first, built in sixteen—" he paused in thought, scratching the top of his combover, disrupting the greasy parallel lines so that some of them intersected. "Sixteen somethin' or other."

Edmund started and threw a quick glance at his brother, but Peter didn't let on that he acknowledged anything.

"I assume it must not have been one of the first Frederick's, since they preferred to be called King _in_ Prussia," Peter contributed with an air.

_Aslan's_ Mane, _he never knows when to let up_, Edmund thought. Peter's new found glory was in showing off his prowess in historical knowledge. That upcoming degree in History at Oxford was _obviously _paying off, especially in such a fine establishment as the local pub.

The bartender was only fractionally amused, and he pointed a knobby finger in Peter's face. "Watch your tongue, laddie," he growled. "By the time I was your age, I had already killed a dozen men and was marchin' through trenches in the Somme lookin' to add to that. Book smarts will only get you so far in the long haul."

Edmund chose not to divulge how many men—and beasts—either of them had in turn killed over their lifetimes. Though tempting, this was not the time for one-upmanship. It didn't matter, though, for without waiting for a response, the barkeep had already shuffled off to the till.

"Thank you, kind sir!" Edmund deliberately called after him, but it was ignored. He looked over at Peter to find him arching an eyebrow at him. "Oh, don't look at me that way. I had no idea about this place, it's merely a coincidence."

"_The Red Lion._" Peter swished around the contents of his highball. "I highly doubt a seedy public house was where he _particularly _had in mind when he asked you to seek him here in England, Ed."

Edmund laughed at the images that evoked, but it was evident his brother's humor was rather short-lived. Instead, the dark look on Peter's face had returned as his brother idly picked at a crumbling knot in the wooden bar. "Pete?" Edmund knew not to pry, but they were getting nowhere, and it was obvious that something was bothering him. Mother was probably expecting them home before midnight, and at this rate, that plate of roast beef was bound to be tough as a boot by the time they got home.

In all seriousness, though, the melancholy was unbecoming on his brother's ridiculously handsome face. Peter looked older than his twenty-one years. Hell, he even looked older than his thirty-six years.

"You ever feel alone in the world, Ed?"

Edmund swallowed a mouthful of gin hard and could only stare dumbly at his brother. "Are you being serious?" he coughed out.

"I am actually, but that came across rather silly, didn't it?" Peter took a drink, and continued to pick at the knot. "Believe it or not, I'm not referring to here. I'm talking about _there_, in Narnia. It was...it was lonely there."

"You mean it's lonely at the top?" Edmund snorted. Whatever was troubling Peter, so far he was gaining little sympathy from Edmund. The High King had never been short on friends or company the entirety of his reign. He was known and loved by all. Edmund, on the other hand, had just as many acquaintances, but could count on one hand how many he was felt particularly close to. _Am I ever alone in the world...I mean, really, we've been brothers for_ how _long?_ Not that he begrudged his brother the friendships—they just related to people differently, and though Peter didn't necessarily understand the thick walls that Edmund kept around him, he respected them.

"No, of course not...that's not it at all."

"It sure sounds it." This conversation was definitely getting nowhere, fast. Edmund considered his drink, gauging how slow he would have to drink this second one to make it last the rest of the evening. He didn't want to go his normal pace if he and Peter were set to be there working out his brother's problems for hours. "What are you on about, then? Are you having problems at University, Pete? Fancy a transfer to Cambridge?"

"No, my studies are going quite well. Thank you for asking," Peter shot him a look, but stopped short of bickering any further. His brow then furrowed and he slowly continued. "I do admit feeling a bit lost, though. There are so many people that I share very little in common with, but mainly because of experience, not because we differ in interests or personality."

Edmund considered what his brother said. He agreed that could be the case for Peter, but he couldn't necessarily empathize. Not only did he personally have little in common with some of his classmates' backgrounds, save for a handful of the veterans, but he actually couldn't identify with them mainly because of the _vast_ differences in interests and personality. But he had been used to that his entire life. _Both lives._

Peter hesitatingly continued. "But...say that I meet someone, Ed..."

Edmund's eyebrows shot up.

"Not that I have, mind you," Peter corrected. "Well, not that I know. I—I don't know, I haven't talked to her."

"Ahhhh, _that's_ where you're going with all of this—"

"Oh, come off it, it's still not what you think," Peter interrupted, becoming frustrated. "I'm just saying what _if _this was the girl for me, or it could be any other girl I have yet to meet. What if I come across 'The One' as Susan and Lucy would call it, the one they say would make my life complete. Or something," he added. He was obviously uncomfortable saying such things.

Edmund thought on the beautiful Archenlander girls, with the braids and lovely singing voices and missed opportunities. He then briefly considered the intelligent girls in his Philosophy classes, with the shapely legs and smart retorts and the opportunities he was determined not to miss. "That would be a good thing, Peter."

"But no! It's not! Oh, what am I saying..." Peter took a deep breath to calm himself. "Forget it, forget that there was ever any girl."

"Got it. No girl. Forgotten."

"Good. Thank you. Because there _really _isn't," he earnestly insisted. The center of the knot had finally become loose, and Peter tapped at it, making it wiggle in place. It really wasn't like his brother to fidget. Edmund found it distracting. And annoying.

"New approach," Peter continued. "Right. So I'm just about finished with my dissertation. At least, I think I am. I'm waiting on comments from my supervisor on my latest draft. While I'm waiting, I'm considering options for my future."

"Is there anything interesting on the radar?"

"Maybe," Peter replied. "I'm considering a year or two off to work, get some relevant experience before I begin a post graduate degree, if I decide to go that route."

"Now there's an idea," Edmund emphatically slapped the bar. The knot bounced slightly in place. "Are the Hohenzollerns hiring at all? Perhaps they could get you a job tending their _Opa _Frederick's pub!"

Even though Peter more than likely recognized Edmund's playful sarcasm for what it was, he was not amused. Peter's drink slammed down, causing it to slosh around in his glass. "Oh stop it already. If you're going to be this way, we may as well go home."

"I know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...there's no reason to get all wound up." Edmund knew he was allowed to push Peter's buttons, but the alcohol was testing his judgement on where the line was this evening. He had definitely crossed it. His brother was truly agitated, and Edmund regretting letting himself get that far.

Peter downed some scotch to calm himself down. Edmund picked up his coaster again and tore it in half. He layered the pieces, and tore them in half again, and continued until he was left with a mass of damp, beige pieces scattered on the bar. He assumed it may be the usual issues of adjustment that Peter had, that they _all_ had, but none more so than Peter. Lucy had her own problems, but that was partly because of her being so incredibly young. _Twice_, Edmund thought, running a trail with his finger through the bits of paper. He and Susan were always the adaptable sort, able to blend in easily with whatever scenario was thrown their way, as they had proved time and again in both Narnia and England.

But Peter—_High King Peter_—had no idea what it took to be...well, normal. "I really do hate to see you this way, Pete."

Peter did not answer, but acknowledged him with a nod. "All right, so I'm finishing my dissertation. It is going rather well, it's one of the few things that actually gets me excited and interested, which has been hard for me here, you know."

Edmund didn't need to say anything. He wholeheartedly agreed that in comparison, Finchley, London, even University at times could be downright dull.

"So, what's to come? I finish things up at Exeter, save up some money, maybe stay at Oxford and pursue a Masters of Letters. And, why not, let's bring the girl back into the picture!" Peter rambled, waving a hand in the air. "Let's say I meet 'The One,' or whatever nonsense that is about, we get married, find the perfect country estate to build a family..." Peter trailed off.

Edmund looked at him closely, his eyebrows raised expectantly. "And?"

Peter looked up, the low hanging stained glass lamp above them made his blonde hair glow. Edmund had to blink from the brightness of the reflection. He leaned slightly forward in anticipation and adjustment, and Peter looked him directly in the eye.

"It's not Narnia, Ed," Peter said simply, voice cracking. "It can never be Narnia."

Edmund broke from his brother's gaze and slumped down into his barstool.

"I—I don't feel complete, and I fear I never will," Peter finished.

The entirely too-young girl on the other side of Peter squealed loudly, breaking the tension, and there was a sound of ice hitting the bar as her drink spilled over. The girl laughed as her companion attempted to wipe up the mess with a couple of cocktail napkins. Edmund saw out of the corner of his eye the bartender shuffling over to help clean up the mess, while Peter casually looked over his shoulder, waiting for things to settle back down. Edmund took the time to let Peter's confession sink in.

Peter obviously hadn't allowed let the commotion break his concentration, and once the grumpy old man returned to the front of the bar, he continued. "And now, any children I do have will more than likely never see Narnia—I don't know if I could even _tell _a potential family about Narnia. It's such a huge part of me that I can never share with those I love most. Save for you and the girls, of course," he quickly added. "I don't know how I can give my all into a life here when such a big part of myself is missing."

Clearly frustrated, Peter finally picked the knot out with his fingers, and tossed it over the bar. "I would have liked to have shared Narnia with a bride, Ed. I longed for one, but it just never happened."

Edmund found himself momentarily stunned. If there was one subject that was only quietly discussed amongst he and his sisters, considered _faux pas_ to even bring up with their brother, was that of Peter's personal life. For one, he never _had_ much of a personal life in Narnia. Peter had been the most public, the face of Narnia—Lucy coming in a close second. Edmund and Susan had the luxury of at least having some semblance of privacy, just by their nature.

All that considered, it was still always assumed that Peter's line would always take precedence when the time came for that to happen. Edmund was absolutely fine with taking a back seat when it came to lineage and command. Though he once desired to be Prince of Narnia, have some semblance of power over his siblings, a promise _she_ made once, that desire quickly vanished after his folly. The girls were never guaranteed to begin with to even stay in Narnia, though both felt in their hearts it would be hard to leave, even though Susan was fully prepared to if need be—and seriously considered it that one time.

It was generally thought, and Edmund even remembered discussing this one evening with his sisters towards the end of their reign, that when Peter decided to settle down that he just...would. They decided that he was no near ready to take on a bride, to settle down and even think about continuing his line. After all, for the first several years, they had the difficulty of not only learning how to even be monarchs, but also had the added benefit of experiencing the joys of simply growing up. It wasn't until about halfway through their reign that Peter had established a rhythm to his life and his duties, at which point he finally began enjoying himself on the throne.

_And off the throne_, Edmund thought, pondering on those occasional unspoken nights in Anvard.

It was understandable that Peter was now feeling a loss of not being able to share his kingdom as originally assumed. A loss that he may have been feeling ever since they returned, a full eight years of mourning, assuming he hadn't emotionally reverted as much as Edmund had, being older and all. Edmund was stunned at the realization of what his brother might have been dealing with all this time.

"I thought I was nearly complete on the throne at the Cair, and I figured the rest would eventually fall in place," Peter voiced Edmund's thoughts. "But it didn't. And we came back here. I don't even think it's worth bringing children into the picture. Or even a wife, for that matter. I would never be able to give them my all."

Edmund took a moment to gather his thoughts and take another drink of his gin. Peter's arguments were quite valid, ones that Edmund had never even considered before. Edmund observed his brother, taking in how resigned he looked hunched over in his seat. "If you turn a blind eye to what eventually could be fantastic possibilities, Peter, you will end up on missing out on a very bright future here," he finally said.

His brother started to protest, but Edmund held up his glass to stop him. "Before you say anything, let me finish. If you truly believe what you said, then yes, your life would be a waste. You will receive exactly what you are expecting—a self-fulfilling prophecy. But for all you know, Pete, your greatest adventure is yet to come."

"Here. In London," Peter snorted.

Edmund shrugged. "Why not? Why would you edit yourself so? You don't know what's to come."

"Yes, and that's the problem. I knew exactly what to expect in Narnia. Well, the majority of it anyway. Our lives were very much laid out before us, whereas here, the future is nothing but...indiscernible shadows," Peter admitted. "And on top of it, there's an emptiness—an emptiness that I feel here that I never felt in Narnia, which doesn't help by any means."

"But think on this for a moment—you already know your full potential," Edmund said, his voice raising, but Peter didn't look convinced. "Damn it, Pete, you've already _achieved_ greatness, which is a lot more than any these blokes around us can claim!" Edmund gestured towards the rapidly filling tables behind them. "You _do_ remember what you're capable of, right?"

Edmund watched Peter's head tilt in consideration. _Yes. Of course he does._

"Listen. As much as we all romanticize it, you and Lucy in particular," Edmund said with a pointed look, "Narnia was not perfect. We made mistakes, after all, many which weren't evident until our return, when we had the advantage of looking back from the outside. But we didn't know that at the time, and we did the best we could. Which is all that we can do now, all that Aslan expects of us to do." Edmund set his glass down, giving the top of it a tap. "But the British Army is the biggest—and, might I say, the most experienced—military force between the U.S. and that damned iron curtain. I don't care what that Shinwell says—to be reducing its numbers at this time is just folly!"

Peter didn't even blink. "I agree, especially with the Soviets slowly creeping west as it is. I heard the Czechs—" Peter looked up to acknowledge the bartender that was standing between the two of them.

The barkeep had a wary look that shifted from Peter, over to Edmund, to Edmund's shredded mess on the bar, then back to Peter. Peter raised an eyebrow in expectation. Edmund chose to believe the bartender's hesitance was due to their earlier exchange and not because he overheard the two of them discussing absurdities such as magical lands and talking Lions. "'Nother round?" he grunted, nodding at the brothers' nearly empty glasses.

Edmund gave him a broad smile. "Thank you, sir, but no. We are thinking of clearing out soon. Let others have our seats and be able to enjoy your fine establishment and all."

The man's lip curled slightly in response, pulling a grungy bar towel off of his shoulder. The brothers watched the man shift over to the gentleman and the ridiculously young girl next to them before continuing their discussion.

Edmund leaned in closer to talk. He didn't want to risk being overheard again. "Others have never even had Narnia, Pete. It was a gift. A fearful burden at times, but a gift granted upon us from Aslan all the same. We learned from that life to help us live _this _life. Take that as you will and do with it what you want. I can't tell you what to do." Edmund gave Peter an apologetic look and a dismissive wave and leaned back in his stool. "I'm not as comfortable at proselytizing as Lucy is, that's for sure."

Peter absentmindedly traced the rim of his glass. "No, you never have been," he said, softly. He let out a soft sigh. "I'm not saying that I'm not going to try my best. But like I said before, there is a comfort in the limits that a ruler has. I find the future is so shaky here, the path is darker," he reiterated. "It's harder here to make decisions when the options are numerous. I fear the future, what's to come. I don't like not knowing, not being in control."

"Yes, well, knowing what is ahead is not all that it's cracked up to be," Edmund scoffed. He tilted back his glass for the last drops of gin, causing the ice to rattle.

"What do you mean?"

"Leaving Narnia our final time. Lucy and myself, we knew an end would be coming. We had the preparation for the news that neither Susan nor yourself had. It was forever looming, just waiting on the horizon. A most uncomfortable feeling." Though he had learned early on there was little he could confide in with his little sister, that was the one thing they shared. It weighed heavily on them both before their final return to Narnia and during their journey on the Dawn Treader.

Peter looked thoughtful and swirled the contents of his glass. "You have a point. I don't know how I would have coped having that knowledge hanging over my head."

A sudden thought occurred to Edmund. "On the other hand, was it any different than when you first came to Narnia, though? I mean, Lucy did forewarn us all, we didn't stumble blindly across it like she did. You were able to cope then."

"But you also knew about it before you first visited," Peter countered. "And you had your own problems upon arrival."

_Damn._ There were two topics that Edmund truly dreaded discussing with his brother, the problems of his dark past in Narnia being one of them. "Please let's not go there," he said exasperatedly.

"We don't have to."

Edmund sighed. _No, Pete, it's too late._ He tilted back his glass again. The gin was all gone, so he settled on an ice cube and began chewing. "No," he garbled around a mouthful of ice. "On second thought, we should. I think it's all relevant to your problem."

"How so?" Peter asked.

Edmund thought back on the statue, her smooth and beautiful face, her outstretched arms. Her sword. "I truly despised coming back here, and the transition was a hell that none of us were prepared for...but she was gone, Pete." Edmund's eyes met his brother's. "Thoroughly gone. That weight that was there, small though it was by the end, started to go away the second we tumbled out of that wardrobe. And it was completely lifted by the time we returned to London."

"Wait a moment—you still felt her, Ed? The _entire_ time we were there?" Peter asked, his brows arched in surprise.

Edmund gave his brother a tight smile and nodded.

Peter let out a low whistle. "I had no idea."

"Yes, well, I didn't like talking about it, did I?" Edmund said.

Peter slowly shook his head and placed a comforting hand on Edmund's shoulder to give it a squeeze. "I had no idea, Ed," he repeated, letting his hand fall.

"It wasn't so hard to manage the last year or two of our reign," Edmund reassured. "I just learned to adapt. Use it to my advantage." _And Narnia's._ Edmund had molded his darker side to Narnia's benefit, spending many an evening in far corners of establishments such as the one they were currently in. _Though England isn't as dangerous a place as Calormen or the former Telmarine border of Archenland. Not anymore, that is._ "I truly believe that I became a better person because of it, a better ruler because I learned not to let it overpower me."

"That is most assuredly evident," Peter firmly offered.

Edmund chose to ignore the compliment and concentrated instead on a piece of ice that was suctioned to the bottom of his cup. He gently shook his glass to try to loosen it. "Yes...well. Anyway, back to the matter on hand. You mentioned an emptiness when you returned here?" he asked.

Peter nodded and leaned forward slightly.

"Well, I felt an emptiness, too—an emptiness where her memory used to linger. But it's a clean slate now, Pete. She no longer weighs heavily on me," Edmund admitted. "And you know what's funny? I can't even _remember _the feeling of those memories weighing down on me. All those years of learning to adapt to them, too. I just remember...adapting, I guess."

"But what about the other two times you went back?" Peter asked.

Edmund gave up shaking and poked a finger to loosen the cube. "I felt a hint of it, but not near as much. Which made it worse that we were there the shortest then—a time when I could fully enjoy Narnia to its fullest and we'd be ripped away.

"But regardless of all that... I actually feel better here. I'm learning to fill that emptiness. Yes, our futures aren't as laid out as they were in Narnia. But I do have hope, even if _here_ is not Narnia. And it's growing every day. It's taken me by surprise, this hope." Edmund tossed the lone cube back with a satisfying crunch. "I definitely didn't see _that _coming."

"I've always considered you rather hopeless myself."

Peter must be feeling better. Edmund would have laughed had he not already heard the joke from his brother countless times. His drink now completely useless, he turned his attention back to his shredded coaster, idly alternating pinching the pieces into a small pile and spreading them out with his finger. Peter sat quietly in thought.

"Maybe we would not have lost Susan were she forewarned about leaving Narnia our last time," Peter finally mused. He looked expectantly up at Edmund, his eyes wide in revelation. "Maybe she would have been better prepared not let the memory slip away."

_And there's topic number two. Damn it all to hell._ Edmund felt that they had been making fantastic leeway—he was not in the mood to argue about Susan at this point. Edmund unbuttoned his cuffs and pushed up his sleeves. It was starting to get warm as the place filled and his liquor was consumed. A sudden thought gave Edmund pause. "Well, that's always an option, Pete."

"What is?"

"What you just said. 'Let the memory slip away'," Edmund offered. "Like Susan. We could gradually stop thinking about Narnia, allow us to fully immerse ourselves in the present time, the present place. Forget about it all."

Peter looked insulted. "That is the most moronic idea I think you have ever had," he clipped.

"Is it? It's what we did in Narnia when we forgot England," Edmund countered. "We adapted pretty well there."

That caught his brother off guard. Peter tilted back the last of his scotch and set the glass down hard on the counter. "Not an option," he curtly replied with a shake of his head.

Edmund shrugged, wishing his own glass still had something in it. He probably would feel something more than the slight buzz from the two drinks he had consumed if it hadn't been for his mother's pot roast. He considered calling the bartender back over and ordering another, but decided against it. His habit of playing devil's advocate often resulted in regrettable hangovers.

"I will not allow any of us to go the way of Susan. Susan has always had her own path," Peter said, sounding resigned. He scrubbed at his face, and blinked away the tension. "Sadly, it is not our own. She doesn't want it to be."

Edmund considered arguing on this, but quickly rejected the idea. This was one thing he did not want to be roped into discussing with Peter, no matter how talented his brother was in opening up a debate. Now was not the time, even if he did fault Peter somewhat on what happened with Susan once she started slipping. Talking down and outright interrogating her about Aslan, or the sea journeys to the Lone Islands, or, hell, even mentioning bloody _Rabadash _only led to confusion on her part and anger on Peter's. And Edmund's. And much sadness all around.

"Once the memories started slipping, Susan could no longer logically rationalize Narnia," he allowed himself to say. "And that's just her nature. Therefore, she doesn't think on it." Edmund paused. _No, it_ is _the time to say it. Damn you, Peter. _"We need to realize that nothing the rest of us do will ever change that. We can't change her. We have no business in doing so."

Edmund abruptly stopped and shook his head. "Sorry...I had a moment of _déjà vu _there. Has that been said before? Or was it from a dream?"

His brother also looked taken aback. "No, you're correct, it wasn't a dream." Peter's eyes squinted, digging deep in his memory. He suddenly snapped his fingers. "Glasswater, was it not? On The Claws! We were coming back from the Olvin Fields—"

"Olvin Valley," Edmund corrected, but nodded as he slowly remembered.

"The Olvin Valley Campaign. Yes, that's right. I forgot." The irony was not lost upon Edmund.

"I remember it because it was the birthday I spent in battle. Some birthday that was," Edmund muttered. Memories flashed by him, memories of sore limbs and damp weather. The tragic loss of one of the finest Cats he ever had the honor of leading, coming back from that first altercation Narnia had with Telmar. _Like I said earlier, we made mistakes in Narnia._ "I think it was about the same age we are now. No, it was _exactly_ the same age we are now." Edmund barked out a laugh and rested his head in his hands.

Peter shook his head in wonder. "Fifteen years ago."

"Yes, and it will always be the difference of fifteen," Edmund muttered, rubbing his eyes. "You know, there is a psychologist in Switzerland who would find our experiences an _invaluable_ case study. This evening alone is rather synchronistic. In a way." Edmund looked up again and frowned. "Then again, considering the path of our timelines, he might find it all a bit too causal for his tastes."

"I have no idea what you are talking about, but I trust you do."

Edmund laughed humorously. "Not really. I will never be at peace with the idea of a timeline that wibbles and wobbles so."

Peter slowly nodded, his eyes glazed as he stared across the bar at the portraits. "I—I do remember how frustrated and torn Susan felt in Narnia, Ed. When she was in our shoes," he quietly conceded.

Acknowledgement and understanding. _Finally. _"But she also doesn't have this conflict, you know, the emptiness that you're feeling. And she's much the happier for it," Edmund softly added. "Now, you tell me, which would you prefer? To remain blissfully ignorant or to cherish the highs, knowing the lows will always be a half step behind?"

Peter started to speak but then hesitated. "Not that I do have a choice...but I would not change a thing were I given the opportunity," he finally said.

Edmund smiled, satisfied with his brother's answer. "And neither would Susan, I'm sure," he concluded. "It's all either of you know."

Peter stared deep into his empty glass in thought while Edmund picked up a handful of the bits of coaster. "All that said, I do miss Narnia, too," he said, breaking the silence. "Even with Jadis hanging over me."

Peter looked up at Edmund, but didn't say anything.

Edmund let the pieces sift through his fingers, and offered his brother a sad smile. "If only we all could have the best of both worlds, huh?"

As the brothers fell quiet once again, the sounds of the pub seemed to get louder. With a rush, Edmund became aware of the bodies and their respective energies in the room. The King of Prussia was at near capacity, with echoes of laughter and friendly arguments bouncing across the room. The mismatched couple to the right of Peter had been replaced with a group of four young men squeezed around the two stools, flagging for the attention of the bartender.

Edmund looked over at his brother and saw Peter give him a slight nod. In silent agreement, they got off their stools and Edmund reached underneath to grab Peter's bag and suitcase. Upon standing up, he saw Peter looking at Edmund's pile of papery shreds. _Wait...when did I do that?_

Peter fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a coin, placing it on the bar.

They had to squeeze by patrons crowded around the tables, young and old alike perched in wooden chairs blocking the aisle towards the door. While Peter dug around for their coats, Edmund turned to give the establishment one last sweep—a habit of his from many years spent as the _Shadow of Narnia_, as Lord Peridan had jokingly called him. Edmund saw through the cloud of cigarette smoke the disgruntled bartender pocket the coin and clean up the mess Edmund had made, while the party that was next to them quickly filled in to occupy the newly empty seats.

As Edmund shoved the door closed behind them, the dull roar of the pub came to a silent halt. Peter shrugged into is coat and adjusted his collar. "You're right, Ed," he said, looking up at the sky. There wasn't a cloud to be found, and the few stars that broke through the glow of London twinkled down. "We still have plenty of time ahead of us. Who knows what is to come."

Edmund handed the rucksack back to his brother in exchange for his coat, but he didn't put it on right away. "Give me a couple of years, and I can at least guarantee that I will able to look you straight in the eye again."

"Just barely look me in the eye, you mean," Peter argued.

Edmund laughed and turned right on the sidewalk. He allowed his brother to trail a half step behind him as they continued south towards their parents' home.

The brothers continued walking in silence for several minutes. Edmund appreciated the coolness of the March evening on his cheeks. The pub had started to get stifling towards the end, and he took a deep breath of the air and enjoyed the invigorating feeling in his lungs. Peter's footsteps clipped behind him.

"So, what do you think I should do first, Ed?" Peter asked. "There are quite a few paths I can take. I have a freedom I'm not used to having. You know, not being King anymore and all."

_Once a King or Queen..._ "You really want my opinion?" Edmund tossed over his shoulder. He could see a set of headlights approaching from behind Peter, putting his brother in silhouette.

Peter waited until the automobile passed by them before speaking. "You have always been my most trusted advisor."

"Well," Edmund said. "You could call on that girl, start from there."

"You mean the girl that I asked you to forget about," Peter stated.

"Yes, that one."

A few seconds passed before Peter answered. "Perhaps." Edmund detected a hint of a smile in his voice.

As they left the central part of the village, the street lamps became fewer and far between, and the houses that were lit up earlier had gone dark for the night. Edmund looked over to his right and saw the waxing half-moon hovering just over the tops of the row of houses with their manicured lawns and shrubbery, soon to be setting in the west.

They stopped briefly when they reached Chessington Avenue. Abruptly, he heard Peter speak again from behind him. "You've always been there for me."

Edmund could see the statue ahead at Henly's Corner, an eerie glow being cast on the smooth stone from the dull light of the moonlight. He turned away from it, not giving it a moment's thought, and looked at his brother standing in his shadow from a nearby streetlamp.

"As you have for me," Edmund softly replied. "After all these years, we still are each other's mentor and student, wouldn't you say?"

That caused Peter to crack a wan smile. With one last clap to the back, he urged Edmund to lead them towards home, with Peter following in his footsteps.

Edmund smiled.

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><p>"Life wants not only the clear but also the muddy, not only the bright but also the dark; it wants all days to be followed by nights, and wisdom herself to celebrate her carnival, of which indeed there are not a few traces in alchemy. For these reasons, too, the king constantly needs the renewal that begins with a descent into his own darkness, an immersion in his own depths, and with a reminder that he is related by blood to his adversary."<p>

—Carl G. Jung, "IV Rex and Regina," in _Mysterium Coniunctionis,_ Second Edition. Translated by R.F.C. Hull.

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><p>Please take a moment to leave a review! I'm rather new at this and would love the feedback!<p> 


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